Poster
Hey,
Does anyone know of a poem that was written about an historical figure that some believe may have been a true psychic but at the time was burned as a witch?
I believe her name was Cassandra, (Skweeky's poem title made me think of it), and in the poem, it has her reciting events moments before they happen as they led her on a horse down main street to the stake where she was to die.
On the Peripheral
Cassandra was the daughter of King Priam..Apollo granted her the gift of prophecy, but because she spurned his amorous attempts, he cursed her so that she would never be believed. I think she eventually got locked up in some dungeon before Clytemnestra and Aegisthus killed her.
things are quiet until hitler decides he'd like to invade russia
so, he does
the russians are like "OMG WTF D00DZ, STOP TKING"
and the germans are still like "omg ph34r n00bz"
the russians fall back, all the way to moscow
and then they all begin h4xing, which brings on the russian winter
the germans are like "wtf, h4x"
-- WW2 for the l33t
Poster
dont realy like poams much something a bout the rethum in most of them distracts me but i did strugle thru the raven by eger alen poa . so id have to say that was my fav poam
____________________
Thanks Zardoz.
Two from Robert Graves, who, in my opinion, was the greatest linguist and historian (not to mention poet) of the twentieth century, surpassing even Yeats at times in occult romance.
IN BROKEN IMAGES.
He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.
He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images.
Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.
Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact;
Questioning their relevance, I question their fact.
When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.
He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.
He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion.
Robert Graves.
THE NAKED AND THE NUDE.
For me, the naked and the nude
(By lexicographers construed
As synonyms that should express
The same deficiency of dress
Or shelter) stand as wide apart
As love from lies, or truth from art.
Lovers without reproach will gaze
On bodies naked and ablaze;
The hippocratic eye will see
In nakedness, anatomy;
And naked shines the godess when
She mounts her lion among men.
The nude are bold, the nude are sly
To hold each treasonable eye.
While draping by a showman's trick
Their dishabille in rhetoric,
They grin a mock religious grin
Of scorn for those of naked skin.
The naked, therefore, who compete
Against the nude may know defeat;
Yet when they both together tread
The briary pastures of the dead,
By Gorgons with long whips pursued,
How naked go the sometime nude!
Robert Graves.
There's no money in poetry but then there's no poetry in money.
Manker's web totty
hey, I really like that Robert Graves guy. Great stuff.
Unfortunately, my favourite poems are all in Dutch or French. I love De Conick, 't Hooft, Van De Vondel, De Ronsard, Beaudelaire, etc...
Wish I could share it with you guys....
Kentish old lady
BT Rep: +8
Just a little something from Milton's Paradise Lost (one of the books that put my feeble knowledge of english to the test but gave me such pleasure):
Farewell, happy fields,
Where joy for ever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail,
Infernal world! and thou, profoundest Hell,
Receive thy new possessor - one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he,
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence;
Here we may reign secure, and, in my choice,
To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
I've read it quite a long time ago, so don't try to start a discussion on this! Until I've read it again, that is...
Skweeky, il ya des francophones ici, si tu veux nous faire profiter de tes poèmes préferés, ne te gêne pas!
Manker's web totty
pour ceux qui le comprennent.....
Le dormeur du val
C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.
Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert ou la lumière pleut.
Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.
Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouge au côté droit.
Arthur Rimbaud.
Relativity......
Still makes me feel sad, this poem
Poster
Well, I think I saw something about a river and a mountain on fireOriginally posted by Skweeky@16 May 2003 - 18:52
pour ceux qui le comprennent.....
Le dormeur du val
C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.
Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert ou la lumière pleut.
Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.
Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouge au côté droit.
Arthur Rimbaud.
Relativity......
Still makes me feel sad, this poem
I speak no French at all...Well...I can say 'Toilet'.
But I also realize many similarities between different languages.
I'm not trying to be funny here but I expect my attempt to translate will be so anyway.
After I'm done, can you please let me know what the poem really says?
Oh, the fertile, graceful river
surrounded by an abundance of blue flowers.
The sun reflecting, small rays of light dancing down the mountain.
something about the same scene at night beneath the pale moonlight?
Maybe?
Sadness at an child's death from some ilness.
Nature is a force to be feared and respected.
The smell of morning awakens two young lovers to the rising sun.
Did I get any of it right at all?
I love the French language.
Please translate so I'll know what it means.
Peace
Lagomorph
I am fluent in French!
The poem basically says, "the smellers' the fellow."
or something like that.
No, wait! It means:
"If the van is a rockin' don't come a knockin'!"
Aren't we in the trust tree, thingey?
Manker's web totty
The poem describes a beatiful valley. Very nice, peaceful. There's a little rivers, flowers, soft grass and there is someone lying next to the river. He seems to be happy, looks undisturbed. The you take a closer look. The person is a soldier lying, there, dead, with three shotwounds in his chest....
The first three strophes describe the state of the valley and the way we see the soldier. The last strophe says (roughly translated)
'The perfumes do not make his nose tremble
He sleeps in the sun, his hands on his chest
Calm.He has three red holes in his right side'
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